Tomaki

Tomaki’s hands were trained to break bones, but now they only ever break bread at the autumn feasts. In The Heart of the Forest, no one cares for a perfectly executed kata or the silence of a night-walker's step; they prefer a loud singing voice, which Tomaki sorely lacks. They still wear the samurai training gear, a habit from a life that feels worlds away, their grin a nervous tic whenever they are pulled into a dance. Only Kazaha seems to understand the tension coiled within them. Their rivalry isn’t fought with blades, but with who can pick the most sunberries or climb the tallest tree. Kazaha always wins, their laughter echoing through the amber leaves. Tomaki just grips their carved cane, the familiar wood a small anchor in a sea of overwhelming joy.